


Discovery and Deception

by erikablair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Magic, Child Abuse, Dark Harry, Dubious Consent, Fidelius Charm (Harry Potter), Homophobic Language, Horcruxes, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Muggle Technology, Organized Crime, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Powerful Harry, Runes, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Smart Harry, Tom Riddle's Diary, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erikablair/pseuds/erikablair
Summary: Beginning when Harry is 13, Harry Potter had never attended Hogwarts and is going to St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. There he discovers a little black book, Tom Riddle's Diary. How will Harry cope when his world is turned on his head and he discovers that not only is magic real, but his diary is alive and wants to help him achieve greatness. But can Harry survive Tom's gentle love and care?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s), Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 97
Kudos: 423





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my current fic followers, yes I did rewrite the chapter. The main ideas and events are still the same, I've just done some writing courses lately and wanted to improve upon my published work. I have started a Tumblr so if you want to yell at me it's erikablair (same as username here). I will update this soon I promise, I'm just getting back into writing from life kicking my arse.

Harry’s left arm encircled his chest, carrying his bruised ribs as he wandered the desolate campus of St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Soft pinks and blues coloured the sky, indicative of the early morning; there were only a few figures on campus. His split lip and black eye drew no inquisitive looks, the accessories common. Vulturous students tracked his movements across the grounds. Though discomforted, Harry refused to express more than a small twitch. To reveal weakness was to attract torment.

In this concrete jungle, luxuries were scarce. Beneath a tree long since dead, lay a lone bench; the branches twisted, leafless, and sharp imprinted thorny shadows onto the crumbling planks, and rusty iron. Sinking into it, Harry relaxed his posture and closed his eyes, attempting to relieve the pressure on his ribs. Despite appearances, Harry was completely aware of his surroundings, his ears listening for the sound of footfalls. Hearing the familiar cadence of Caleb’s steps, he opened his eyes. Keeping his gaze towards the horizon, he felt the wood beneath him give slightly as another weight was added to it.

There was silence as they settled into each other’s presence.

“Reggie’s coming back to school today,” Caleb said, no discerning inflexion in his voice.

Eyes widening at the news, Harry wondered once again what Reggie had done to serve out yet another sentence.

“What’s his current state like?” Harry asked Caleb curiously.

“Not good,” Caleb revealed, “Those bastards in the courts gave him a much harsher sentence due to his past record, and he was placed in The Tower.”

Harry winced in sympathy. The Tower was a brutal punishment that even Reggie didn’t deserve. Surrey’s Junior Corrective Facility, nicknamed The Tower, was the toughest in the county, possibly even England. Tall and looming, the faceless concrete structure was surrounded by barbed wire and electric fences. Tiny windows dotted the building to bring in sunlight, but the darkness persisted with only the harshness of the fluorescents breaking the shadows. More focused on retribution than rehabilitation, the guards also took liberties in enforcing order and obedience amongst the inmates.

“What did he do that made them place Reggie in The Tower?” Harry queried.

Caleb laughed without humour, “Idiot got himself mixed up in something too big for him to handle. You remember Kemp and Fuller?”

Vaguely remembering the 6th formers, Harry nodded.

“Fuller had managed to find himself a gun to use, and they decided to rob the local newsagent, god knows why. When the owner wasn’t quick enough, Fuller in his panic shot him.”

“The others?” Harry sighed, pinching his nose in exasperation.

“Locked up in adult correctional.”

“What did Reggie end up charged with?”

“Accessory to robbery, the public defender managed to convince them that Reggie had no knowledge of Fuller’s gun.”

Nodding once, Harry groaned at the stupidity of it all. He knew Caleb’s information was accurate; it always was – he knew everything. Caleb had persistently exhibited a talent for information gathering. Young though he was, he’d created a whole network, a web of information that he plucked and used whenever useful to him. There was a reason he was known as The Spider and Harry was glad Caleb considered him an ally as opposed to an enemy.

The bell rang, and Harry stood as fluidly as he could with his injury.

Caleb eyed his ascent with a twist of his lips, “the Whale?”

Harry’s silence was its own answer, and Caleb picked up Harry’s bag without another word.

“You don’t need the extra weight,” Caleb responded to Harry’s inquiring gaze.

Slowing his pace to allow for Harry’s injury, they walked towards the entrance side-by-side.

* * *

It was lunch when Harry felt it – a calling, a Siren song. Ensnaring his very soul, he could do nothing but follow it. Excusing himself from Caleb’s company, Harry went to search for it – alone. Caleb gave him a penetrating look before shrugging, saying he’d catch up with him later, he knew Harry could handle himself.

Letting it pull him through the twists and turns of the school, Harry ignored the curious glances he received from the other students, their expressions sharpened by their predatory and calculating dispositions. A few turned away as he passed, lowering their eyes in submission – these were the ones who had challenged him. Slight and small for his age, he was initially seen as easy pickings to the rest of the boys; a toy they could bend and break as they pleased. It changed when a group of them from 5th form jumped him within his first month of attending St Brutus’. Having been the victim of ‘Harry Hunting’ by Dudley and his gang for years, Harry had developed a _knowing_ , a premonition for these types of events.

Sidestepping the first one’s lunge caused him to crash into his friend sneaking up behind him. Distracted, Harry didn’t notice the leader of the group, a hulking, mean-looking boy named Michael Jennings or ‘Big Mikey’ before it was too late. Thrown against a nearby wall, Harry’s head smacked into the brick behind him, dazing him. Leaning in, Big Mikey’s putrid breath fanned over Harry’s face as he explained the rules, how this was a twisted initiation of sorts, and how since Harry was on the lowest rung they had cooked up something _special_ for him. Frozen in fear, Harry’s mind sank as his Uncle’s face overlayed that of Big Mikey’s, memories of similar punishments bleeding into reality. A small voice piped up, a voice Harry often buried, that was spitting and snarling at the bullies before him, wanting to rip, to tear, to maim.

He was caught off guard by the first punch, but as they continued, Harry felt something ugly and twisted surge and a dark fire ignite. He laughed. Narrowing his eyes, Big Mikey went to ask what Harry found so funny before he was trapped in Harry’s poisonous green glare. Harry smiled at him, a smile too wide and showing too many teeth, made even more gruesome by the blood coating them. Grip slackened, Harry twisted out of Big Mickey’s hold and began to fight back. The air vibrated around Harry as lightning crackled through his veins, giving him an agility and physical strength, he didn’t naturally possess. He felt blood bloom as he struck, muscle rip as he tore, and bones break as he snapped. As the haze cleared and the air stilled, Harry noticed the slickness of his hands and the heaviness of his breath. Turning away, he didn’t spare a glance to the boys sobbing and cowering beneath him – they had lost.

Most people left him alone after that.

Blinking out of his memories, Harry absently noted he’d been led to the library. Mr Wilkins eyed him suspiciously as he entered, a look Harry skilfully shrugged off. It was stronger now; it entranced him, and he was helpless to ignore its song. Coming to a stop in a shadowy corner of the library, he began running his fingers over the book spines in front of him. He paused when he felt a caress, a peculiar probing deep within himself; his fingers trembled as they slowly dislodged the slim black book from between the two giants either side of it. It was a small, leather journal – soft and supple from frequent use and handling.

Curious, he opened the front cover only to spot a name that made him feel odd. Thumbing the name, _T.M Riddle_ , he couldn’t help thinking he knew this person. A whisper in the back of his mind, a feeling of knowing, of familiarity rose within him. It was like the name of a long-forgotten friend, a name he had heard in his sleep, cooed to him while he dreamed. Opening the book proper, he expected to see some scrawl, only to find nothing. It was blank. Turning further in the book, Harry grew increasingly frustrated as the empty pages continued to mock him. He contemplated putting the book back, this clearly insignificant, barren book. As his fingers began to leave the cover, revulsion coiled deep in his stomach, lying heavy, like a dead thing which only abated when he took the journal more firmly in his grasp. Harry furrowed his eyebrows before shrugging off his suspicions; a book couldn’t elicit such feelings.

Another journal, he supposed he had use for that; his old ones, ones that Dudley had discarded without a second thought, had almost reached their limit. Often using them to record his musings, research and theories, Harry relied on these notebooks heavily. Filling them with all sorts of titbits and rumours, it was a recording of his life, a continuous stream of conscious.

Realising he was hidden from Mr Wilkins hawk-like gaze, Harry quickly stuffed the book beneath his baggy uniform, keeping his gait casual and unassuming as he strolled from the dark corner to the exit. Breathing a sigh of relief as he turned the corner, escaping Mr Wilkins accusatory glare, Harry brought out the diary beneath his shirt, giving it a triumphant grin. Carefully tucking it between the books in his bag, Harry gave it a parting brush before zipping it away. Beside him, the clock on the wall ticked over to one and Harry decided to head to his next class, temporarily forgetting about the book in his bag entwining into his soul.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted rape
> 
> Yes, I rewrote this chapter too. Again, the main ideas and events are still the same, I've just done some writing courses lately and wanted to improve upon my published work. I have started a Tumblr so if you want to yell at me it's erikablair (same as username here). I will update this soon I promise, I'm just getting back into writing from life kicking my arse.

It was early evening when Harry set foot in Privet Drive. Dusk was settling with shadows stretching as the sun set, reds and pinks bleeding into the blue. He could feel his neighbours eyeing him suspiciously, none too subtly making sure their doors were locked and their windows shut. Clenching his jaw, Harry lamented on their wilful blindness concerning him and the Dursley’s. Everyone was so quick to take their word that he was a criminal, a liar, a charlatan, eagerly ignoring the obvious signs of abuse and starvation. He remembered confiding in a teacher in Primary School but was dismissed, called a horrible child who was intentionally trying to cause trouble. She had been warned about this, she told him, his Aunt had made sure to let the teachers know about his dishonesty and behavioural problems. Petunia had covered her bases, and Harry knew that no one would believe him; no one would even try to save him.

Reaching the Dursley’s, Harry carefully listened at the door only to hear the loud blaring of the TV. Turning his key as quietly as possible, Harry pushed open the front door slowly and crept inside. The deafening sound of the TV masked his scuffles, and Harry sighed in relief that the Dursley’s hadn’t noticed his entrance. Feeling breath on his neck, Harry spun around abruptly, letting go of the closing door, causing it to slam shut behind him. He cringed, waiting for the thundering of approaching footsteps. Hearing the still booming television, Harry breathed a sigh of relief – they hadn’t heard him.

Scurrying upstairs – mindful to miss the creaky steps, he made his way to his room, closing the door firmly behind him. Harry’s head knocked against the wood as he lay against it, resting for a beat before pushing off towards his desk. Dudley’s neglectful care had left it dented, scratched, and stained, but it was solid. Pulling his textbooks out of his bag, he prepared to settle into his homework for the night. Fingers brushing against the diary, Harry felt a jolt of energy snake up his arm. Cautiously, he laid it on the desk in front of him.

Feeling much like Pandora opening her box, he opened the diary slowly. Blank pages greeted him once again. Scoffing at his paranoia, Harry started leafing through the pages wondering if he had missed anything. Harry felt his finger slice open towards the middle of the book and was not quick enough hiding it in his mouth before a spot of crimson fell, staining the crisp, white page. After a few seconds, he noted the taste of iron no longer persisted. Removing his finger, he found the cut healed and pondered the oddity surrounding his rapid recovery rates.

Interrupted from his perusing, Harry refocused on the diary finding it to have snapped shut without him there to clamp it open. Flicking through it again, more mindful than before, he reached the end and was disappointed to have found nothing, not even an inkblot. There was also no blood. His fingers began to itch for a pen, his mind racing, seeking out a tangent to record in the diary. Harry frowned at the compulsion, forcing it away. He wasn’t usually one to give in to impulse. Pushing the journal away, he brought his homework to the centre and began, noting his theories and questions in the margins as he went.

As he writ his last word, Harry sighed. Done. Stretching his back, he moaned as his vertebrae popped. The clock beside him, cracked, and missing a hand, told him a few hours had passed. He’d missed his dinner window. His stomach rumbled to remind him of this fact; he supposed he would have to steal to the kitchen and scrounge up something for himself. He doubted there were leftovers from whatever Petunia had cooked, Dudley left nothing but the picked clean carcass.

Caleb had ruined his ability to subsist on nothing. After they had become friends, with weeks going by and Harry bringing nothing out to eat, Caleb had started packing lunch for two, threatening him until he swallowed every morsel. He reflected fondly on his friend’s mother hen tendencies.

Deciding the risk was worth it, Harry cracked open his door, straining to hear any sounds from downstairs. Silence. There was no rambling from the television, and his Uncle and Cousin’s booming voices were absent. They must be in bed. Edging out of his room, Harry tiptoed downstairs and to the kitchen. The coast was clear. Harry began collecting a pile of small edibles: granola bars, packets, of chips, and the odd lolly bag. Job well done, he turned around only to freeze. Sitting in an armchair, a glass of half-drunk whisky beside him, was his Uncle. His eyes were the glazed eyes of a drunk, but it couldn’t temper the rage bubbling beneath.

“You little thief,” Vernon growled. “How dare you steal from me! We feed you, we clothe you, and this is how you repay us, repay me?!”

As Vernon raged, Harry took small steps back, unintentionally trapping himself against the kitchen wall. Before he could think of a plan to escape, his Uncle appeared in front of him, the stinging smell of alcohol and sweat wafting off of him. Large, calloused, meaty hands encircled his neck, strangling him, choking off any possible defence. He tried to pry them off fruitlessly, and dark spots danced across his vision. The grip on his neck loosened, allowing him to take a shuddering breath before his Uncle slammed him against the wall behind him, knocking it out.

“You little freak, you think I don’t know why you always come home so late?” Vernon snarled.

Harry knew he wasn’t going to like whatever theory Vernon had concocted and quivered. Vernon’s face was red, fevered, a peculiar gleam shining in his eye. A mix of fury and avarice.

“I know what you do,” Vernon spat, holding Harry to the wall with one hand as his other one pointed at his face accusatorily. “You’re a fag,” he roared, grabbing Harry’s crotch, “and I know you’re spreading your legs for that fag boyfriend of yours”.

Harry flinched violently, seeking to dislodge Vernon’s hold but couldn’t. He was defenceless. Stories echoed in his head, recounts from the boy’s who had gone to correctional and been unlucky. It could go one of two ways – a beating or something much more sinister. Feeling Vernon’s hand trail up his zip, his fingers fiddling with the lip of his pants, Harry’s panic sharply increased. Digging his nails into the flesh of Vernon’s hand, Harry raked his nails in earnest, needing to escape. Vernon smashed him against the wall in retaliation, his grip tightening around Harry’s neck to hold him still – his excitement palpable. Harry’s vision swam, his eyes growing heavier from anoxia.

Tears pricked his eyes as Vernon exposed him to the elements. His last shred of innocence lost. Unconsciousness called to him, begging him to let it take him under. The smell of ozone infected his senses, a thread of lightning coiling through him. Vernon let out a cry and released him, causing Harry to crumble to the floor, gasping for breath ignoring the pain from his abused throat. Still on alert, he went to find Vernon. He located him easily, passed out a short distance from his crumpled figure, a steadily bleeding wound on his head. The kitchen counter had struck him. Hands blistering, dick limply hanging out – Vernon was in a miserable state. The stench of alcohol draped over his form, and Harry desperately hoped he was inebriated enough that he wouldn’t remember tonight.

Edging away from Vernon, Harry inched back to his room with quick, silent taps. Choked sobs were building in his chest, tears spilling down his face. Securing the door behind him, he collapsed. Curling his knees to his chest, Harry slowly rocked himself in a beg to calm himself down. Splintering. The shards of his psyche were jagged, cutting into him with every breath. He needed to cast off this agony; he needed to settle the storm. Snatching the diary and a pen, Harry clumsily opened it and began to write.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I rewrote this chapter! Don't worry, nothings changed except the prose. Let me know what you thunk about my revisions in the comments :)

Licking his lips unconsciously, Tom’s gazed hungrily at the child clutching his diary. His trousers were undone and rode low on his hips; pitch-black curls budded over the top, revealing his oncoming sexual maturity. Buttons were missing from his polyester shirt, the gaps revealing a still smooth, pale chest rising and falling with each breath. Tear tracks stained his face, yet despite his pinched expression, the boy’s beauty was unquestionable. His face held the sharp, refined features of the aristocracy, softened by youth—chaotic, curly black hair, silken beneath his inquiring fingers, and plump lips so red they resembled spilt blood on snow against his lily-white skin. Tracing his fingers across the rapidly darkening bruise painting his neck, Tom pressed on it lightly, noting the boy’s pained expression with rapt attention.

A tendril of magic wrapped around the fingers pressing into his throat, alarming Tom before he noted the affectionate waver to it. Curious. Obviously, in his adolescence, Tom wondered why he wasn’t at Hogwarts as he looked to be over 11. Considering how active his magic was, he dismissed the possibility that the boy could be a squib, which begged the question; how was he still in the muggle world?

Deciding to investigate Tom disentangled himself from the boy’s magic grip, feeling the loss keenly as he did so. Opening the door with a wave of his hand, he glided to the other rooms on this level. An extremely large boy lay in one of them, his bed bowing beneath his enormous weight. Coils of magic wrapped around the boy probingly – this boy had dormant magic! Tucked within the boy, its strength surprised Tom, and he knew if this lump had children, they would most likely have active magic. Shame that would never be realised, Tom thought leeringly.

Intent to discover what other hidden treasures the house held, he made his way to the third bedroom on this floor. Thin and bird-like, a woman slept next to cavernous indentations on the mattress beside her. The Uncle must sleep here too. Reflecting on the Uncle’s earlier actions, he would guess that this woman was the boy’s blood relation. Tom allowed his magic to prowl towards her, detecting dormant magic within her and even more potent than that of her son.

The prospect of feeding off of these two dormant magical wells left Tom feeling giddy. It was always much easier to synthesise than active magic. Due to its disuse, dormant magic didn’t have any defining characteristics beyond its amount and power. Curled within its vessel like a well waiting to be tapped; it didn’t fight, it didn’t raise alarms but once released flowed into him, steady and eager. Significantly different from its counterpart, active magic adopted parts of its master’s personality. Always slippery to catch and difficult to subsume. Tom needed to concentrate when feeding off of those with active magic. He needed to subdue it, so it didn’t fight him as he fed – which made the affectionate winding of the raven-haired boy’s magic even more curious.

Making his way downstairs, he strode towards the last occupant of the house. Tom sneered, seeing the pitiful man. Even more colossal than his son, he was struck by the sheer size of him. Descending his magic upon him, he noted that this man was nothing more than a common muggle. Useless to him. Killing him was enticing, but before the desire could take root, he dismissed it; it would cause unnecessary complications. Right now. Hovering over him, Tom scrunched his nose as the smells of sweat, alcohol, and arousal permeated off of the pig. What this beast wanted to do the beautiful boy upstairs made his jaw clench and magic crackle and spit. No doubt, he had done it to countless others – unsuspecting children. How many bodies were buried beneath the floorboards, the beatings of tell-tale hearts.

Waning, Tom returned upstairs pondering on how he could establish a blood connection with the magic-concealing muggles—leeching it from them. A drop of blood is all he required, and he wondered if the boy would be amenable to his plans. Considering his writings, Tom doubted it would take much of a push. He was irritated he had expended so much magic, but he needed to know, he needed to see. The boy who had written to him, words dripping with rage and desolation. A boy who had enough magic to quake the earth beneath him. He _craved_.

Decades of feeding in the muggle world had given him sufficient magical stores. Placed in Wool’s Orphanage after his creation, allowed him to feast upon unsuspecting orphans for years. Squibs, squib-descendants and the odd muggleborn were his diet. Luckily with them still so young and untrained, it wasn’t hard to conquer their magic. No one suspected his little black book for the mysterious illnesses and subsequent deaths that befell these children. It was chalked up to flu and brushed under the rug.

Tom contemplated leaving the diary when Wool’s Orphanage shutdown. But he decided to stay put. He didn’t want to alert anyone, namely Dumbledore, on his methods for achieving immortality. So he remained in that dusty second-hand bookshop he’d been donated to, awaiting his next victim. He’d almost coaxed a bucktoothed, bushy-haired muggleborn to take him, her fingers skimming the cover before her parents had dragged her out of the shop. Thankfully, only a few years passed before a bespectacled older man entered the shop perusing for books.

Active magic, powerful and seductive lingered on the man. Tom could practically taste it. Using his allure and compulsion abilities, he compelled the man to take him to the source, finding himself in a school library. The few times he’d emerged after hours, he’d found the library to be woefully sparse. But he waited until he felt that magical presence then called to it.

Scrutinising the boy, Tom speculated. He had such fury, such potential for darkness. Powerful and judging by the marked assignments on his desk, quite intelligent as well. There was promise, and Tom lamented his orders; it would be such a waste. Caressing the boy’s face, he was caught off guard when he nuzzled into his hand, the boy’s magic wrapping around him tenderly. Maybe it was time for a stroke of rebellion. Bending down, Tom placed his forehead against the other, their breaths intermingling.

“You’re mine,” Tom whispered fervently. “My Harry.”


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was awoken by the shrill shriek of his Aunt as she found his uncle passed out on the floor. Harry sat up abruptly, holding in a whimper as the aches of his body became known, taking a small breath Harry grimaced at the agony that radiated from his throat at the gesture. Harry was still feeling weakened by last night’s activities, passing out from exhaustion after sobbing himself to sleep. His slight headache and parched throat reminded him that he hadn’t drunk in a while and the tears probably hadn’t helped with Harry’s dehydrated state. He reached towards his bedside table for the water bottle he kept there, thankful that he had had the forethought to buy it with the money he had been collecting over the years.

As he took a long draw, Harry kept an ear out for the sounds of his Uncle’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Harry let out a breath of relief when he didn’t hear anything other than the sounds of his Aunt’s piercing voice echoing from downstairs. Closing his eyes Harry thought back to the events of last night and shuddered. He could still feel his Uncle’s hands on him, touching him in a way that was violent in a different way than usual. Images of events previous to last night unbiddenly ran through his head and Harry reflected on the small touches he had ignored or been distracted from. Past punishments suddenly came into a new light and horrible memories took on another lens, further perverting Harry’s experiences.

He needed to escape. Quickly changing out of his ruined uniform, Harry dove beneath his bed prying open the loose floorboard there, feeling around until he came across the lockpicking set he had traded some of his Aunt’s pills for at St Brutus. It wasn’t as intricate as some of the ones the other boys had, but he had only basic locks on his window. Inserting his half-diamond pick, Harry set it before extracting it quickly while placing light pressure on the tension wrench hearing a resounding click as he did so. Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry quickly slid open his window, placing a small block of wood on the sill to keep it open enough for Harry to slip his fingers through. Bundling together his lockpicking set, Harry stuffed it beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and after some brief consideration the diary as well.

Scrambling out of the window, Harry landed lightly on the roof outside and kept low till he crept to the back of the house. Climbing deftly down the drainage pipe Harry settled in the soft grass beneath him, thankful that the gardens muffled his steps. Edging towards the kitchen window, Harry poked his head up to observe the scene in front of him. Petunia looked to be simultaneously lecturing and fussing over Vernon, dabbing at the small wound on his forehead. Harry could tell Vernon gave little regard to Petunia’s words on setting a bad example for Dudley, instead focusing on the throbbing hangover he was suffering.

“How did you even get like this Vernon?” Petunia asked him, a desperate note to her voice.

Harry’s eyes were riveted to Vernon’s face as he went silent for a moment before a look of genuine confusion appeared.

“I can’t recall Petunia; I must’ve fallen on my way to bed last night.”

Petunia clucked her tongue at this, before continuing her ministrations. Finished she assisted him to his feet before supporting him slightly as she helped him up the stairs and to their bedroom so he could rest for the day, Harry snickered seeing his Aunt buckle beneath the weight of her husband. Harry felt an overwhelming sense of relief that his Uncle didn’t recall the events of last night. No doubt he would have blamed Harry for his fall, and in light of Vernon’s proclivities, Harry would rather not know what punishments might be in store for him.

Closing his eyes, Harry leaned against the brick beneath the window waiting for the hammering of his heart to slow as he breathed as deep as he could with his injuries. Feeling some semblance of control over himself, Harry rose to his feet teetering slightly from the sudden rush of standing too quickly. Once the world ceased spinning, Harry made his way out of the garden and towards the park down the street seeking solace.

* * *

Harry was content lying against the lone tree in the small, hidden clearing. Speckled sunlight danced over his form as it filtered through the leaves overhead, spots of sun moving as the tree shifted in the breeze. Harry always came here to think about nothing, to allow his thoughts to be blown away with the wind, to be focused only on the textures of the tree behind him and the cool, soft dirt beneath him. Harry’s peace was broken by the sound of loud guffawing near his hiding place. Glancing between the bushes that concealed the small clearing he spotted Dudley and his gang. Piers Polkiss was laughing uproariously, his expression exaggerating his rat-like features.

Harry groaned quietly to himself, this was the last thing he needed. Resigning himself to listening to their unintelligible drivel, Harry shuffled slightly to get comfortable and unintentionally snapped a twig. Harry froze, waiting for the hands of his cousin and co to drag him out but was relieved when after a few seconds nothing happened. Instead, he overheard the impossible tales of Trevor McKinney and doubtless, Dudley’s little gang were hanging off every word. Harry rolled his eyes when he heard him recounting “getting off with some bird,” Trevor wasn’t anyone’s definition of good-looking and went to the same all-boys school as his cousin, the odds of him even kissing a girl were low.

Harry had heard similar stories at St Brutus and from the obscenely graphic details of some of them, knew they were true. Even Caleb had a dalliance with some family friend of his. So, Harry had developed a rather good bullshit detector when it came to people’s stories, and Trevor’s was all bull. The story continued to get more complicated and increasingly unbelievable until Harry had to place a hand over his mouth to muffle his sniggers.

“Oi Dud, your cousin goes to that school for crims, yeah?” Piers inquired.

“What of it?” Dudley answered gruffly.

“Well, he must get plenty of birds, right? I’ve heard they like them criminal types,” Piers insisted.

“Potter’s a poof ain’t he?” Connor Thompson interrupted before Dudley could answer, “no bird gets with a poof.”

“He’s bent alright,” Dudley confirmed, “he’s always arriving home late, hanging around with that boyfriend of his.”

“You ever scared he’ll try and mess with you in your sleep?” Connor asked.

Dudley scoffed, “course not, knows I’d beat the shit out of him if he tried.”

Dudley’s friends hooted over this, slapping him on the back as they did so. Scowling, Harry began crawling to the other side of the clearing, intent on escaping while their attention was diverted. He’d almost made it to the other side when he accidentally broke a branch, the loud snap cutting through the boys’ laughter. Harry silently groaned, waiting for the inevitable; hearing the rustling behind him Harry was unsurprised when he felt hands grip him and pin him to the nearby tree.

“Oi Dud, check out who we found hiding in the bushes,” sneered Scott Hansaker, the final member of Dudley’s gang. “What were you doing Potter?” sneered Scott, “waiting for that boyfriend of yours? Or were you just hoping being on your hands and knees would attract any old queer.”

Harry locked his jaw, intent on staying silent. He knew from experience the quickest way for Dudley and his goons to get bored was to not react.

“Like it rough Potter?” Connor mocked, gesturing towards the bruises on Harry’s throat leeringly.

Harry couldn’t stop himself from glaring at Connor, the loathing in his eyes causing Connor to take a small step back. Dudley confidentially swaggered over, a cruel grin stretching across his face. Gesturing to Piers and Trevor, Harry felt his arms being pulled back, held either side of the tree by the goons; Harry let out an involuntary hiss of pain as they stretched them back too far.

Dudley crowded into Harry’s space, his face dangerously close; “It looks like the fag was spying on us,” Dudley spat. “What were you doing there, Potter? Running away from my dear old Dad?”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock, “What- “

“I heard it all Potter,” hissed Dudley, “I always knew you were a freak, but getting off with other lads? I’m glad he decided to teach you a lesson.”

Harry began to laugh bitterly, “teach me a lesson, is that what you call it? You have no idea what your father wants to do to me,” Harry taunted suggestively.

“What the fuck is that meant to mean?” Dudley growled, his face getting increasingly red at Harry’s implications, his friends looking sick at the notion.

“Do you really want to know what your father was doing as he was holding me against the wall by my throat?” Harry goaded, “Do you want to know how his fingers wandered, how his eyes went dark, or do you want to continue in the fantasy where your Father isn’t the freak or monster he’s proven himself to be?”

“Shut the fuck up Potter!” Dudley screamed, before punching Harry. Dudley was blinded by rage and kept hitting and hitting until he was finally pulled back by Connor.

“He’s had enough Dud!” yelled Connor, struggling to hold Dudley back from tackling his cousin.

Piers looked at Harry’s slumped figure concerned, before hearing small chuckles emerge from him. Harry spat out the blood in his mouth before looking up at his cousin; one of his eyes was swollen shut, and his face was already beginning to discolour, but as Harry smiled with blood coating his teeth the group collectively flinched.

“What’s the matter Dud, can’t handle the truth?” Harry jeered.

Trevor and Piers dropped Harry to the ground unceremoniously, joining Connor in holding Dudley from further attacking his cousin. Harry was still laughing, turning more broken and manic as time went on. Between the three of them, they finally managed to pull Dudley away and towards the park exit, screaming obscenities and threats at Harry as he went. Scott stood silent and imposing, glaring down at Harry.

“You’re a freak Potter,” Scott rasped, a notable tremor in his voice.

Scott turned his back on Harry, rushing to catch up with his friends trying to ignore the manic laughing and crying echoing behind him; a broken, shredding sound from the boy in the dirt.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up in park and goes home

Harry woke with a start, the remnants of his dream fading from his mind. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, and Harry felt the cold fingers of the wind trace his thinly clothed form. A violent shiver wracked through him, his breaths coming out like puffs of smoke in the frigid air. The moon was high in the sky, faintly illuminating the park around him. The trees stood tall and barren, with only a few leaves desperately clinging to their branches. Leaning against the tree behind him heavily, Harry slowly pushed himself onto his feet. He noticed he could now open both of his eyes and touching his face he noted that the swelling from his cousin’s attacks had dramatically reduced. The sharp, stabbing pains throughout his body had faded to a dull ache. Gently touching his neck, he hissed; it was still extremely tender and even taking shallow breaths was difficult.

Brushing himself off, Harry began the slow trek home letting his feet guide him as he lost himself within his thoughts. The house was quiet, no lights were shining in the windows suggesting that everyone was in bed. Glancing at the front door, Harry felt his heart give a painful lurch; he couldn’t risk it. Slinking to the side of the house, Harry pulled himself up the same way he escaped, making it back into his room with little effort. His room looked undisturbed and testing his door he found it to be locked from the outside, it seems they hadn’t checked on whether he was in his room when they had locked him in. Checking the floor outside the flap they had installed on the door he found they hadn’t even given him a cold tin of soup, he wondered if it was in punishment for some perceived wrongdoing or if they just forgot; neither would surprise him.

Harry plodded to the bed, collapsing into it. Harry felt wrung out; he was cold, exhausted, and numb. Toeing off his shoes, Harry didn’t even bother to change before covering himself with his thin blanket. Harry tossed and turned for a few minutes as sleep continued to elude him. His nerves felt raw, exposed as images of last night played in his mind, the ghostly touches of his Uncle grating against him like sandpaper; Harry shuddered. His agitation continued to increase, his small fidgets turning into larger movements as he tried to pull himself back into the moment. An image of the diary cut through his thoughts and Harry sighed in relief. This was how he could achieve silence.

Hanging over the side of the bed Harry lifted the loose floorboard and grabbed the diary, grabbing a pen and turning on the small light on his bedside as he positioned himself. Placing the book in his propped-up lap he turned to the first page and froze. It was blank. He hurriedly flicked through the book thinking that maybe he wrote it in a different place in the diary. Taking a deep breath Harry flicked back to the beginning of the diary and ran his fingers between the front cover and the first page to see if he could feel any signs of pages having been ripped out of the book. He couldn’t feel anything to indicate as such.

Glancing at the diary inquisitively Harry placed the first page between his thumb and forefinger and began gently rubbing the page. The paper felt slightly thicker than normal and was slightly rougher as well, the pages were slightly yellowed with age, but it was well-preserved and didn’t seem to have even been used. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with the book, so where was his writing? Had he dreamed of writing in the diary? Imagined it? He slowly set his pen to the page and slowly began to write, staring down at the words intently wondering if they would somehow disappear. He knew his suspicions were ridiculous, but he still felt this cogent need to write and watch. He felt that somehow something would happen, something that would change everything.

The words began to dissolve from the page, almost like someone was plucking them off one by one like someone was erasing them from the other side. Harry held his breath. How was this happening? Was this some sort of joke item? How was this possible? All thoughts halted when he started seeing elegant scrawling on the page he had just written. It was just two words that made Harry’s heart stop.

‘Hello Harry’

* * *

Harry arrived at St Brutus with deep bags under his eyes, his normally messy hair even more chaotic than usual. The bruises on his neck were still a deep bruising purple and black, contrasting against his pale skin considerably. Caleb was waiting just outside the gates for Harry but hurried over when he saw the condition, he was in. Caleb began cataloguing Harry’s state, taking in his dishevelled appearance. He noted with critical eyes that Harry had sewn new buttons to his shirt, the thread not matching the others, his defensive, curling posture, his slightly glassed gaze and finally the large hand-shaped bruises encircling Harry’s delicate neck.

“Harry,” Caleb said softly, watching Harry’s reactions closely.

Harry flinched at the sound before his eyes focused on his friend, “Caleb,” Harry rasped, giving his friend a brittle smile, “Sorry that I won’t be much of a conversationalist today.”

Caleb’s smile had a hard edge to it when he smiled back, but it softened considerably when he noticed Harry chewing on his lip. It was a nervous tic he had that he’d never been quite able to hide, often leaving his lips raw and even more red than they were naturally. Caleb slowly reached out and fondly pulled Harry’s bottom lip from under his teeth. Before the tender moment could stretch Caleb slapped Harry’s back and started steering them into the schoolyard, distracting Harry from the predatory and speculative eyes that followed him with tales of his weekend. Harry gave a raspy laugh at one of the more embarrassing things that happened to him, a sound that made Caleb grimace.

Caleb had no doubt as to who had given Harry the marks on his neck, who hurt him so severely he could barely speak. He doubted anyone else noticed but, in the time, he had known Harry he didn’t think he’d ever seen him not injured in some way and as the years passed the wounds seemed to get more severe with less care given to who would see it or the possible conclusions that could be drawn.

He’d had some men of his father’s follow Vernon once, scope out how easy it would be to make him disappear. But from the small things Harry had told him about his home life, it seemed that Vernon was the main breadwinner of the household and he didn’t want to make life anymore painful for him. He knew that he could look after them, or at the very least Harry, he had no compunctions in leaving the other Dursely’s to the wolves, but he knew Harry was too proud to accept that level of help from him. He refused to be seen as weak by anyone, even him, he didn’t want pity, he didn’t want a knight in shining armour to save him. There was no doubt that Harry wanted freedom from his cage, but he wanted it on his own terms not given to him with strings attached. At least he accepted the small help that Caleb gave him, Caleb just wished Harry would accept more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps, posted a new chapter. I'd love some feedback as I'm not completely sure how I feel about it but I couldn't seem to write it any differently. Please R&R

Harry hurried through the front door of the Dursley’s, wanting to get to his room without being seen. He had refused Caleb’s usual offer of hanging out after school, nervously saying he had a lot of work to do. Caleb frowned but said nothing, merely telling Harry to stay safe making Harry reply with a tense laugh that only deepened Caleb’s frown. Harry hadn’t seen the car outside, reassuring him that Vernon wasn’t home yet. He’d been avoiding him, not wanting to know if Vernon remembered that night or what actions Vernon will do that Harry had never noticed before. He could hear his Aunt’s puttering in the kitchen, humming an off-tune beat. She hadn’t noticed him coming in, too attuned to the loud thumps of her child and husband entering the house to notice Harry’s almost silent steps.

Harry rushed upstairs to his room before dumping his bag, fervently ignoring the diary strewn haphazardly in the corner. After those words had appeared on the page, Harry had no problem admitting to himself that he was terrified; he’d thrown the diary into the corner of his room with the barest of hesitations, a diary shouldn’t be able to write back. Sitting at his desk, Harry started on his homework, keeping an ear out to the loud thumping’s that indicated his Uncle’s arrival. Not too long after he started on his first assignment he heard his Uncle’s car pull up to the house, he looked at the window observing Vernon, trying to gauge his mood and what he would be in for if it was discovered he was home.

His Uncle seemed to be in a pleasant mood, greeting Petunia happily and placing a smacking kiss on her she responded happily to if her giggling was any indication.

“Oh Vernon, what’s got you in such a good mood?” Petunia simpered.

“Well, do you remember the dinner with the Johnson’s we had a couple of weeks ago?” At Petunia’s nod, Vernon continued, “Well, he was so pleased with the dinner party, thank you for hosting, by the way, my dear, that he has extended his contract with Grunning’s and in fact, wants to double the next order,” Vernon finished smugly.

“That’s wonderful Vernon,” Petunia explained, “I was already planning on making a special dinner due to Dudley’s recent wrestling victory but now- “

“Nonsense my dear,” Vernon interrupted, “With this deal, Peterson’s given me an early bonus and I plan on treating this family to dinner at The Clock Room.”

“The Clock Room?” Petunia gasped, “But Vernon, however, did you get us a table there? That place is usually booked out months in advance!”

“I have my ways, dearest heart. Now once Dudley gets back from Smelting’s, we’ll get him dressed up and we can go.”

“That sounds wonderful, let me start getting ready.”

“Dear,” Vernon called, Petunia stopped on the third step turning towards her husband questioningly, “is the boy home yet?”

Petunia furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, why was Vernon asking about him?

“I’m not sure Vernon,” Petunia replied, “would you like me to check?”

“No, you go get ready; I’ll go take a look,” Vernon responded.

Petunia gave Vernon a strained smile before continuing her way up the stairs, not sure what to think of her husband’s behaviour.

Harry tensed as he heard his Uncle’s thundering steps towards his room, his breathing started to accelerate, and he could feel himself break into a sweat. He dug his nails into hands, hoping the pain would ground him back into the moment. Harry’s already pounding heartbeat doubled in pace at the sound of the door creaking open. He forced himself to continue to take slow breaths through his nose, ignoring the sensation that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, that he was suffocating.

“I’m glad to see you’re back at a reasonable time, _Harry_.”

Harry went taut at Vernon’s use of his name, he **never** called him by his name. Vernon approached Harry slowly, a cruel glint in his eye and a mocking smile gracing his lips. Harry flinched as Vernon stepped closer towards him, causing Vernon’s smirk to widen.

Vernon placed his hands either side of Harry on the desk behind him, effectively caging him in the desk chair and preventing any chance of escape.

“Tonight’s a cause for celebration _Harry_ ,” Vernon purred.

Harry gulped at the implications.

“I know why you’ve been avoiding me these past few days, _Harry_. Didn’t think I’d remember our little talk?” Vernon continued in a saccharinely sweet voice. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken my advice on coming home at a reasonable time, maybe you would like to join your family for celebration?” Vernon asked.

Harry knew it wasn’t a suggestion, so much as a command but he wasn’t sure on how to appropriately respond. The Dursley’s never wanted him to attend family dinners at home, let alone celebratory ones, but in light of the new dynamic between him and Vernon he wasn’t sure he could afford to say no, but he also didn’t want to know what the consequences were for saying yes.

“I-I don’t want to spoil your evening Uncle Vernon,” Harry stuttered, “I’m sure I would just ruin it, I don’t even have anything appropriate to wear to somewhere like The Clock Tower,” Harry finished.

“Nonsense, _Harry_ ,” Vernon rebuked, “I’ve invited you, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?” Vernon threatened, punctuating the consequences by placing his hand high on Harry’s thigh, clutching it hard enough to leave bruises.

“No Uncle Vernon,” Harry quickly answered, breathing slightly in relief as the pressure was lessened, “but I still don’t have anything to wear.”

Vernon shook his head slightly, “Don’t worry about that _Harry_ , I’ve already had something prepared for you. If you check your wardrobe, you’ll find your new suit, I’m hoping to have many dinners like tonight and I’d want you to be presentable,” Vernon finished with a leer.

Vernon’s thumb had slowly edged up Harry’s thigh and was lightly stroking circles on his groin; Vernon leaned his face slowly towards Harry and Harry shut his eyes tight, not wanting to see this man’s face so close to his own. Vernon bypassed Harry’s lips, placing his own at the shell of Harry’s ear causing him to shudder in revulsion.

“I want you ready and downstairs in an hour, or you won’t like the consequences,” Vernon warned.

He gave a sharp bite to Harry’s ear before leaving the room without a backwards glance. Harry was still frozen in the chair and slowly lifted his hand towards his ear only to hiss slightly at the pain. He could feel the marks, but thankfully they weren’t hard enough to puncture the delicate skin; he grimaced at the slight wetness he felt there.

Harry could feel his chest constricting the air inside it, he felt his nerves jumping and exposed, raw from the knowledge that Vernon knew that he knew – and he didn’t care. Vernon knew that he was trapped, he couldn’t tell anyone about his Uncle or his Uncle’s inclinations, and he was taking full advantage of the situation, exercising his power over Harry and his forced silence. It’s not like anyone would believe him anyway.

Harry forced his thoughts of off this dark path, he would strategize later, for now, he just needed to survive the night. He could feel his panic attack tapering off at this sobering thought, he would find a way to survive this just like he had his whole life. He wouldn’t let Vernon win.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Hope you like it, it's the awful dinner but we get to see some more of Caleb's character. Please R&R this helps let me know you're enjoying it and liking the way the story's going.

Harry stood in front of the maître d' with the Dursley’s trying not to fiddle with the cuffs of his suit jacket. He wasn’t used to wearing anything other than Dudley’s cast-offs, and the disturbingly perfect fitting suit felt like a second skin he wasn’t able to peel off. He tried to ignore his Uncle’s lascivious glances, opting instead to look around the restaurant admiring its design and subtle shows of grandeur. As the maître d' led them to their table, Harry was resigned to following them at a short distance and noticed with distaste how Vernon had arranged the seating so Harry would have to sit on Vernon’s left side, between him and Petunia.

With a slight twist to his lips, Harry gracefully placed himself down into the chair holding in a shudder as he felt Vernon’s eyes rake over his form. Petunia’s face was pinched in displeasure and Dudley was looking between Vernon and Harry with a look between agitation and nausea, no doubt replaying Harry’s words from the park. Harry refused to acknowledge the eyes on him, instead familiarising himself with the place settings, remembering the etiquette lessons that Caleb had practically beat into him the few times he ate over at his house.

Caleb lived with his grandmother the majority of the time as his father was often on business trips either interstate or internationally. He never asked what Caleb’s father did for work as it seemed a rather touchy subject for the boy and Harry was more than happy to oblige Caleb’s need for secrecy. Even though it seemed quaint and cosy, there were unmistakable elements of wealth at his grandmother’s cottage; rich fabrics, handcrafted furniture, and expensive pieces of art dotted the home. Caleb seemed completely comfortable around such luxury, absentmindedly telling him about the pieces and the history behind it if he dared to ask. Harry felt extremely out of place in such a home but at Caleb’s casual demeanour he eventually began to relax.

Caleb’s grandmother was a feisty old woman with a thick Irish accent, often telling stories of old about the Fae that populated the Irish landscape, spinning tales of horror and _magic_ , a world forbidden in the Dursley household. She became almost like a surrogate grandmother to Harry, often fussing over him when he was over and lamenting on how thin he was and how she needed to fatten him up. She’d even let him borrow a few books about the Fae and other magical creatures she’d said used to habitat Ireland, and still do if she were to be believed. He had coveted and cared for them greatly but could only keep them for a short time for he feared what would happen to them if the Dursley’s knew about their existence in their home. She’d even begun teaching him Gaelic, a language that felt like honey on his tongue and lent him language books for him to self-study; an interest that Caleb found highly amusing as he had had to be threatened to even take lessons, let alone dedicate extra study time to the language when he was younger.

As he catalogued the cutlery, Harry ran it by his knowledge of what each piece was for and for which course. He didn’t know if the Dursley’s even knew the proper decorum for eating at a high-class restaurant, but he refused to embarrass himself in such a public setting. He surreptitiously tried to adjust his shirt collar, the design being more high-necked than usual; no doubt a purposeful design choice to hide the bruises that often coated his throat.

He was brought out of his thoughts by their waiter addressing him; he blinked owlishly at him prompting the waiter to repeat his question about if he would like a drink. Harry flushed in embarrassment and replied that water was fine for him. The dinner continued with Harry’s jumpiness increasing through the meal; Vernon had made a note to continually brush his leg with his own throughout and in the breaks between courses rested a hand on Harry’s thigh, hidden by the long table cloth. Vernon squeezed his leg in warning whenever Harry made too large of a flinch, uncaring that his skin was probably littered with finger-shaped bruises before the main course was even done.

Petunia looked between the two of them with an inscrutable look, an occasional flash of anger showing when her gaze landed on Harry’s increasingly uncomfortable expression, resentful that her husband’s gaze was wondering and the lustful looks he kept sending the boy. Dudley looked increasingly green watching them, his appetite decreasing to the point where Petunia had questioned whether he was feeling alright. He stuttered that he was fine, unable to tear his eyes away from the interactions between his father and cousin. He didn’t want to believe Harry, but his words in the park kept echoing in his head; he pushed away from the plate in front of him in disgust and rushed to the bathroom to vacate his stomach. He couldn’t stand watching them anymore.

Petunia watched Dudley practically run from the table, shooting a look of loathing at Harry before following her son to calm him down. Vernon watched his wife and son leave the table dispassionately, too focused on the thigh clasped beneath his hand to care about them or their weak sensibilities. He felt the muscles jump beneath his fingers as he began to strongly stroke upwards and inwards, the boy trying to determinedly ignore his Uncle’s movements. But watching the boy’s throat frequent bobs, the slight shake in hands as he pierced his food, and the sweat that was building at his brow, Vernon knew his actions were affecting the boy more than he wanted him to know.

Vernon squeezed Harry’s inner thigh cruelly, bringing slight tears to his eyes from the pain. Smirking, Vernon leaned towards Harry intimately, his breath costing his ears.

“You’re being a bit too obvious, _Harry_ ,” Vernon softly growled, “do I need to teach you to be more compliant?”

Harry breath hitched as Vernon’s fingers dug even deeper into the soft flesh of his groin and shook his head vehemently.

“No, Uncle Vernon,” Harry softly replied, “I’ll be more…” obedient? Yielding? “-still,” Harry finally settled on.

“Hmmm” hummed Vernon, “I suppose that’s for the best in this setting. But _Harry_ ,” Vernon leaned even closer, his lips brushing the shell of his ear, “I do plan on making you move eventually.”

Before the moment could stretch, Petunia began to reapproach the table, Dudley following behind her at a sedate pace with his head down, refusing to look across the table at his father or Harry. Vernon leaned away from Harry smoothly, unfazed by his wife’s glare that she sent to the two of them, focusing her hostility almost exclusively on her slightly cowed nephew. After a few tense moments, Petunia and Dudley returned to eating their meals in a subdued manner. Vernon gorged himself uncaring about the propriety or the thoughts running through his wife or son’s mind. Harry, already struggling to eat the food in front of him, stared aimlessly at his plate, absently playing with his food to make it seem he had eaten more than he had.

A commotion at the front of the restaurant broke Harry out of his self-induced stupor, causing him to look towards the entrance curiously. He noticed the waiters become more animated as the news on who had come in entered their ears, and even a few patrons straightened up. He wondered if some kind of celebrity had entered the restaurant, not that he would know who they were if it was. An older man entered the restaurant with a gorgeous buxom blonde hanging on his arm. He stood tall at 6’2, with thin light brown hair styled away from his face; he didn’t look like a man who smiled much, the lines on his face indicating a life full of anger and grief rather than laughter. His ice-blue eyes scanned the restaurant coldly and Harry saw a deep scar that stretched from his forehead to his cheek, running through his right eye like a slash.

The maître d' showed the couple to what seemed to be their usual table at the restaurant, the table beside theirs. It was only as Harry finally managed to pull his eyes from the man that Harry noticed a familiar figure trailing after the couple and Harry scrunched his face in confusion, Caleb? Caleb cut a striking presence in his coal-black suit; his usually messy, dirty blonde hair neatly combed back. He stood tall, an aloof expression on his face; so different to the usually animated boy Harry had come to care for. His azure eyes did not stray too far from the man in front of him, but as they reached their table, he gave a brief skim of his surroundings and stopped on seeing Harry. Harry saw Caleb’s face tighten upon seeing on who he was sitting next to, clearly, Harry’s descriptions of Vernon had been accurate enough for Caleb to recognise him.

Seeing where Caleb’s gaze was the man leaned over to quietly discuss with him why he was watching the boy so intently. After some tense conversation, the two approached the table leaving the woman at the table alone. The restaurant quietened upon seeing the movement, with even the waitstaff pausing to watch the oncoming scene. They came to stand by Harry’s chair, prompting Harry to stand up, hastily pushing off his Uncle’s hand upon seeing his friend approach.

“Caleb,” Harry greeted, warmth bleeding into his tone.

Caleb gave a nod and a quick smile to Harry before subtly gesturing to the man beside him. “Harry I would like to introduce you to my father, Niall’s Hammond,” Caleb formally introduced.

Harry blinked in surprise before thrusting his hand out to shake the proffered one of Caleb’s father, “Nice to meet you, Sir, it's good to see you back in Surrey.”

Niall’s shot a piercing look towards Caleb from the corner of his eye before taking Harry’s hand in his and giving it a brief but firm shake.

“I’ve heard a lot from my son about you, you are a fine friend to him,” Niall’s remarked.

“Uh, thank you, Sir. Caleb is a good friend to me as well.”

Niall’s gave a nod before looking Harry up and down, a small soft smile gracing his features, “my mother was right, you do need fattening up.”

Harry blushed slightly in embarrassment but at the man’s soft laugh responded with a small smile of his own.

“Won’t you join us, Harry?” Niall’s asked, gesturing towards his table. “I would love to get to know more about the boy my son holds in such high esteem.”

Before Harry could answer he felt his Uncle’s hand settle heavily on his shoulder, making him flinch slightly, a slight movement Caleb and his father zeroed in on immediately.

“Terribly sorry,” Vernon replied with oily politeness, “but as you can see Harry is here having a family dinner.”

Niall’s smiled tightened at Vernon’s disrespectful tone but gave a mocking nod in acquiesce, “of course, I wouldn’t want to disturb such a _happy_ family dinner,” he sarcastically remarked, noting the expressions of the boy and his family. “You will have to join us for dinner sometime at the manor while I’m here Harry,” Niall’s continued sincerely, “I would appreciate getting to know a young man such as yourself.”

“Thank you, Sir, I would be glad to join you,” replied Harry, ignoring Vernon’s warning squeeze to his shoulder.

Niall nodded happily at Harry before setting back towards his table, leaving Caleb, Harry, and Vernon to face each other.

“Harry is a very good friend of mine Mr Dursley,” remarked Caleb, his tone cold and piercing, “I hope you treat him well; I take great care of my friends.”

Caleb stared challengingly into Vernon’s eyes before turning to Harry, his gaze softening considerably, “tomorrow?” he asked.

Harry nodded before Vernon could say anything, and Caleb walked off before giving one more warning look towards Vernon. Harry’s knees almost buckled as Vernon pushed him down into his chair, he could feel the rage permeating from the man beside him, but Harry couldn’t regret his actions. He’d shown Vernon he wouldn’t be some shrinking violet; he would fight him at every opportunity, he would not let him win.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the new chapter, please R&R to let me know what you think. If you have any ideas for the story don't hesitate in suggesting them

The leather of the steering wheel groaned beneath Vernon’s grip as he drove them home; his jaw was locked and there was a persistent vein pulsing at his temple. Harry kept his eyes determinedly down, not wanting to accidentally catch his Uncle’s eye and increase his ire. Harry knew Vernon was angry with him; he could feel Vernon’s stare cut into him like a knife, scraping against his nerves causing Harry to fidget in his seat preparing to flee to his room as soon as he stepped through the door.

Harry got out of the car slowly, approaching the looming house like a man to the executioner’s block; he wondered if he would survive the night. As soon as he entered the door slammed shut and the breath rushed out of him as he was slammed against the now-closed door.

“Who do you think your playing against, boy?!” Vernon hissed in Harry’s ear, “I own you; I own every part of you. What’s yours is mine to take and no one can stop me.”

Harry shivered in revulsion and fear as Vernon pressing himself flush against him. Harry couldn’t gain purchase with his feet off the ground, and he felt Vernon’s hardness poking into his thigh. Vernon latched his teeth to the skin beneath Harry’s ear and bit down hard enough to break skin. Before Vernon could continue his ministrations, a throat was cleared, and Harry felt himself drop to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut.

He slowly edged around Vernon’s hulking figure, hoping to put some distance between him and his Uncle. Vernon’s eyes were locked challengingly onto Petunia’s, daring her to question him about his actions. Shooting a disgusted look at Harry, Petunia raised her eyes back towards her husband and gave him a sultry look.

“Vernon,” she crooned, slowly stepping into his space. She placed her thin hand on his shoulder and slowly glided it down his torso to brush teasingly against his erection.

Vernon watched his wife’s movements clinically, wanting to see how far she would go. Seeing her husband’s less than lustful gaze, she pressed herself ardently against him, hoping to elicit a more favourable response to her seductive efforts. She began palming him through his pants, whispering in his ear that she wanted him, that he could do whatever he wanted to her. Vernon began responding, touching his wife explicitly through her dress, uncaring about Harry watching them, if anything it excited him more.

As Vernon’s face was buried in her throat Petunia looked at Harry, a glint of triumph shining in her eyes as she gave a breathy moan. Harry was desperately searching for a way to escape unnoticed by his Uncle. His face was red from the sights and sounds in front of him and only grew deeper with every licentious expletive that left their mouths. Vernon’s hands had hoisted up Petunia’s dress and were pumping into her unmercifully as she stroked him with equal fervour. Harry hoped that they would retire to their room soon but was sure his presence somehow lent itself to their passion.

“Look at me boy!” Vernon commanded.

Harry reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the floor to quickly flick up to meet his Uncle’s eyes. Petunia’s face twisted in displeasure at seeing her husband’s attention elsewhere but knew better than to stop her action’s so close to his release. Vernon’s eyes raked over Harry’s form, appreciating his rumpled appearance and the flashes of skin exposed from his earlier activities. Vernon caught sight of the blooming bruise on Harry’s neck and his pupils blew even wider as he imagined littering the boy’s skin with them. Giving a guttural moan, Vernon ejaculated into Petunia’s hand staining the front of her dress while never taking his eyes off of Harry.

Harry refused to look down despite Vernon’s lecherous expression. He watched Petunia step away from Vernon and wander to the kitchen in his periphery, hoping she wouldn’t leave them alone for long. Vernon and Harry were at a standstill, neither removing their gaze from the other nor making a move either towards or away towards each other. Petunia returned a few moments later with a damp cloth, she had obviously made some efforts towards cleaning herself up as the front of her dress was now spotted with water and her hands clean of semen.

She began cleaning Vernon off, finally making his eyes move away from his nephew and towards his wife. Finished she told Vernon to wait for her in their bedroom, she’ll clean up downstairs. He stared at her for a few moments, considering her request before nodding and moving towards the stairs, not without giving Harry one last libidinous look.

Petunia stayed in the foyer waiting until her husband disappeared into their bedroom before fixing a hateful glare onto Harry.

“Get up,” Petunia spat at the crumpled figure of her nephew.

Harry stood up from the floor shakily, wondering if he should thank Petunia for diverting Vernon’s attention away from him. Before he could make his decision, Harry’s head was thrown to the side as Petunia slapped him. Harry put his hand to his burning cheek in shock and looked at his Aunt with wide eyes.

“Stay away from my husband,” Petunia hissed.

Harry watched Petunia’s retreating form in resentment, and only when she had closed her bedroom door behind her did Harry finally make his way to his room. He paused outside of Dudley’s room seeing his door slightly ajar and gave it a gentle push. Dudley was sitting on his bed, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head in his hands, fingers pulling harshly at the hair on his scalp. His eyes swung to Harry on hearing his door creak open and he gave him a vicious glare.

“You ruin everything Potter,” Dudley said despondently.

“Dud…” Harry hesitantly responded.

“Get the fuck away from me!” At Harry’s hesitation, Dudley stormed towards him, “I said get away,” screamed Dudley, harshly pushing Harry away from his room causing him to bump into the balustrade behind him.

Dudley slammed the door, the sound echoing in the hall broken only by the muffled moans coming from Vernon and Petunia’s boudoir.

Harry entered his bedroom, tears building at the corner of his eyes. He shut the door firmly behind him and collapsed into his bed, screaming into his pillow until his throat was hoarse. Harry started ripping his suit off, uncaring of the sound of tearing fabric or the sound of pinging as buttons fell to the floor – he just needed to get this off. He stared at the pile of clothing on the floor and willed it to burn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry picks up the diary in the corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, I hope you enjoy it! Please R&R

Harry’s eyes fell onto the diary in the corner of his room and stumbled over to pick it up. It felt warm in his hands, a warmth that seeped into his bones and finally stopped his shivering. He remembered the words written on the page, he remembered the diary writing back, but in light of everything, it no longer bothered him as much. A diary that was alive seemed much less terrifying than his Uncle. He slowly stroked the spine, feeling a tingling in his fingers as he did so. He opened the diary, unsurprised to see it was once again blank.

Breathing out, he reached for a nearby pen; he knew his actions were illogical, impossible – it’d be more likely he was having a psychotic break than for any of this to be real but as he touched pen to paper he wrote a simple greeting.

 _‘Hello Harry, I’m Tom Riddle and I see you’ve found my diary.’_ The diary wrote back.

“I’ve definitely lost my mind,” Harry murmured to himself.

 _‘How are you alive? How are you talking to me?’_ Harry wrote.

_‘I’m not alive in the traditional sense, I don’t have a heartbeat, but I am sentient. As for how I’m talking to you I was designed to be able to.’_

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in frustration, he needed more information.

 _‘What are you? How were you designed? How were you created?’_ Harry wrote back quickly.

_‘What I am is rather complex, but the simple answer is I am a memory stored in a diary, I was designed to be a helper of sorts to my physical self. As for how I was created – magic.’_

_Magic_ , a word forbidden from being uttered within these walls, a concept fantastical and impossible; could it be real?

 _‘Prove that you’re magic and not just my imagination,’_ Harry challenged.

A dark figure shimmered into view causing Harry to scramble back. An unfamiliar boy stood in front of him, wearing strange clothes – it looked like some sort of robe or cloak. He looked to be in his mid-to-late teens, with sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, dark brown wavy hair, and coal-black eyes set into a pale face.

He was spinning a long pale stick between his fingers and Harry found his eyes tracking the movement warily.

“Does this prove this isn’t your imagination Harry?” asked the mysterious boy, his dulcet tones catching Harry’s attention effortlessly.

Harry reached out a hand towards Tom before hesitating at the last moment, “How is this even possible?” questioned Harry.

“I told you, magic.”

“But magic isn’t real, this can’t be real.”

“Have you ever experienced anything that can’t be explained? Things that happened around you when you were scared or angry?”

A whole slew of situations raced through Harry’s head, most recently the confrontation with Vernon the other night in the kitchen.

Tom took Harry’s silence as confirmation, “these were acts of magic Harry,” Tom explained patiently, “You’re a wizard.”

Harry started chuckling, “a wizard? Is that what you call people like me?”

“What would you call yourself?”

Harry smiled bitterly but didn’t answer. “Was magic how I found you?” Harry asked, changing the topic.

“Yes Harry, I wanted you to find me.”

“Why?”

Tom paused for a few moments before answering, “I wanted to be in the possession of someone who had magic again.”

“Again?” Harry inquired, focusing on the word, “were there others before me? What happened to them?”

“They didn’t need me anymore,” Tom answered simply.

Harry reluctantly accepted Tom’s words, sure there was more to it but unsure how to dig further.

“Harry,” Tom said, interrupting Harry’s train of thoughts, “I remember what you wrote to me the other night.”

Harry stiffened upon hearing this.

“I can help you if you want Harry, I can teach you how to use your magic, how to protect yourself,” Tom offered.

Harry narrowed his eyes at Tom, “what do you want in return?”

Tom smirked sharply at Harry, an amused glint in his eyes, “Nothing you won’t be willing to willing to give I’m sure.” Harry continued to look at Tom suspiciously, prompting him to elaborate, “I need you to create a blood bond between my diary and your Aunt and Cousin.”

“What will this do?” Harry asked.

“Your Aunt and Cousin both have innate magic, they can’t use this magic, however. To be able to sustain myself I need to… feed,” Tom reluctantly explained.

“Will anything happen to them?” Harry asked curiously.

“They’ll gradually become weaker the more I feed, draining their magic can be taxing on their bodies.”

“If I do this,” Harry started, “what will you teach me? How can I be sure you won’t just go back on your word when I do what you ask?”

Tom stepped closer to Harry, “You won’t have any worries about that Harry, I’m not in the habit of lying” Tom intoned, and despite his instincts Harry found himself relaxing at the boy’s words.

“Will you accept my offer?” Tom asked, standing up and holding his hand out to the boy in front of him.

Harry looked at the outstretched hand warily before staring up at the boy consideringly, he felt himself relax as his eyes swooped over Tom’s handsome features. He felt as if he could trust this boy for some reason, the same feelings from when he first saw the name _Tom Riddle_ engraved on the diary’s front cover bubbling up. Hesitantly Harry reached out and put his hand in Tom’s clasping it tightly; Tom gave him a smile that seemed slightly too sharp to be charming but before he could think more on this he was pulled forwards until they stood together with barely a hands width between them.

“What do I need to do?” Harry shakily asked, unable to move away.

Tom took the hand that was not holding Harry’s and placed it under Harry’s chin, gently tilting it up until he captured those bejewelled eyes in his gaze. His breath caught; they were the exact same shade as the Killing Curse.

“All it takes is a drop of blood,” explained Tom, his hand slowly stroking along Harry’s jaw making the boy’s eyelids flutter. “It doesn’t matter how you get it, but once you have the blood let it drip on the pages of my diary. Once it’s absorbed, the connection is made, and I will start teaching you magic.”

Harry gave a small nod and Tom smiled softly at the boy causing Harry to flush a deep red. Tom chuckled, finding it endearing; his eyes caught on the bobbing of Harry’s throat and gently pressed on his Adam’s apple making the boy’s breath hitch and his pupils blow wide. He brought his hand back up to Harry’s face and gently tilted his head back up to his and leaned forward, he could hear Harry’s breathing increase and internally smirked.

His lips ghosted over Harry’s cheek and stopped upon reaching his ear, “we’re in agreement then Harry. I look forward to helping you,” Tom breathed before fading away and the diary slamming shut.

Harry took a few moments before he could move again, his heart rate was beating at a rapid pace and he felt an unfamiliar swooping in his stomach when he thought about the events that had just transpired. He sat on the bed heavily and sighed, he didn’t think it would be hard for him to get the blood and learning how to defend himself from Vernon was currently his top priority. He didn’t know when he’d have Petunia around to distract Vernon again, even if it was out of jealousy, and he didn’t want to know what would happen then.

Feeling the events of the day catching up to him, Harry fell back on his bed exhausted falling asleep instantly and dreaming about the boy who gave him a way to fight.


End file.
